


denial's not just a river

by limerental



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bladder Control, Bodily Fluids, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Desperation, Full Bladder Sex, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Loss of Control, M/M, Omorashi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Premature Ejaculation, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: “Hnggh,” Geralt grunted, a swell of crippling need cresting over him, considering the merits of shoving Jaskier off and struggling up to deal with this, to put an end to this foolish game. Itached, and the solution was simple, he would just--“Be good, my dear,” said Jaskier, and he could do nothing but struggle to obey, holding on.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 863





	denial's not just a river

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill adopted from [@witchertrashbag](https://witchertrashbag.tumblr.com) from an anon who asked for loss of control/loss of agency in relation to edging/orgasm control/premature ejaculation/omorashi
> 
> it's geralt piss fic, babes

As the backblow of the griffin’s massive wings knocked him back against the rocky outcrop, Geralt had to begrudgingly admit the reality of his situation.

He was in trouble.

Not for the strength or shrewdness of the beast he faced, for it was a young creature, scarcely out of juvenile plumage, her hide smooth and untested by blades. After he had stymied her initial frenzied attack with a slash deep into the junction of her wing to the shoulder, she fled from him in lurching bursts of her wings, and he had half a mind to let her.

Except that her stumbling flight led her ever closer to the main road and that his first blow had crippled her too badly to survive on her own. If she escaped from him, she would die in agony as her wound festered, and even an injured, dying griffin could rack up a body count.

Ordinarily, this would be no issue. He’d tracked wounded beasts for hours dozens of times, doggedly following behind their increasingly chaotic trail until they finally slowed enough to be confronted and put down.

Except this time, he had to fucking piss like anything, and it was really godsdamn inconvenient.

The contract had mentioned only the pair of griffins nesting in the mountains. Half a day eaten by the rigorous climb alone, scaling sheer cliffs with hardly a flat place to rest. Discovered the nest easily enough. But _fuck_ , both griffins in the nest, curled around a fresh clutch. Less risk to wait until one flew off on the hunt.

So, Geralt had settled in at a vantage point to peer down at the pair.

And soon encountered a developing issue.

He had drunk most of his waterskin during the climb as well as a potent decoction for stamina. The latter being a mistake when paired with the increased fluid intake. It was thanks to quirks of mutated Witcher anatomy that his body was able to bind and flush the toxic potions at a swifter rate than a man would have, rendering them harmless.

Which was fine. No problem.

Except when the excess fluids could not be readily voided without alerting two ornery griffins to his presence.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, something that occasionally had to be suffered through until the hunt was over, so he had ignored the discomfort low in his belly and waited until the female griffin swooped away to burst from behind the tangle of shrub and strike down the male with a gurgling blow to the throat.

Easy. Routine.

Except, he had moved too soon.

The shrieking death rattle torn from the throat of the male griffin carried to the female still nearby enough to hear, and Geralt swore as she swept back into the clearing in a furious blaze of feathers and claws and slashing beak. She lunged at him, caught her talons in his armor and dragged them both backwards off an outcrop.

Leaving his sword in the dust on the edge of the cliff.

Even so, wrestling among the rocks, holding her blindly snapping beak away from his face, it did not take long to subdue her. His scrabbling fingers dug into her ragged mane, gripped tight, and _twisted_. At the crack of her neck, her weight fell boneless atop him, the air shoved out of his lungs, and he felt against his own chest the moment her great heart stilled, her twitching mass settling on top of him.

The pressing bulk of which across the length of his body did very well to remind of his earlier predicament.

If only he had given in to that reminder and stopped to relieve himself before beginning the climb up the sheer cliff to retrieve his silver sword.

Instead, he had grit his teeth, shoved the dead creature off, and clambered quick as he could back up to the nest, catching sight of his sword the moment he reached the summit and scooping it up by the hilt.

And a few moments too late, catching sight of the juvenile griffin with her head bowed low to nuzzle along the neck of her slain father.

So, as dark settled in after several hours spent tracking the young beast found him sorely regretting not pausing to take a leak at the base of the cliff. His teeth were goddamn floating.

And worse still, the beast was tumbling headlong in the direction of where he had made camp with the bard this morning. He could smell the cooking fire, hear the sizzle of animal fat. Which meant the griffin could as well. _Jaskier_ , he thought and pushed through his distraction to gain on the beast. Wiggled free the cork of another stamina decoction for good measure and downed it in one go.

Geralt drew close enough to catch the beast by the tail just as she burst into the clearing. Which had the desired effect of encouraging her to swing back to strike at him instead of Jaskier but the undesired effect of her claws gouging a slash along his upper thigh. But as she opened her beak in a terrible screech, he grunted and drove his blade through the roof of her mouth, and her body collapsed to the packed dirt of the clearing, gurgling her last breaths.

“Oh fuck, Geralt,” came the bard’s voice from the fireside. “You’re hurt.”

It was only as the thrill of the hunt began to wear off that his body reminded him of the unfortunate effects of two potions and a full waterskin.

Except, by then, Jaskier had already manhandled him into propping him up against a tree and tugging down his leathers, sitting between his legs near the fire to tend to the seeping wound from the griffin’s claws. He didn’t immediately recognize the throb in his abdomen for what it was, distracted by the bard’s long fingers dabbing salve into the stinging cut whose edges had already begun to knit together.

But fuck, he had to piss.

“Jaskier, I--” Geralt started, but the bard shushed him.

“Let me do this, you bastard,” said Jaskier. “Witcher healing or no, there’s no need to be tempting infection when I’m around to keep you from suffering needlessly.”

“Tempting something,” grumbled Geralt. Which was his next mistake.

The bard’s expression went gleeful. The hand that wasn’t tending his wound snuck up his opposite thigh.

“I could show you tempting,” he said, voice thrumming with flirtation. “If you’d like.”

On any ordinary occasion, Geralt would very much like. The bard had warmed his bed (and other such sleeping arrangements) since their first encounter nearly a decade before, and he had yet to grow tired of his careful ministrations. More often than not, he indulged in a tumble with Jaskier after a successful hunt.

Except. This time.

The weight of his bladder settled in his gut, part throbbing ache and part uncomfortable pressure.

He should shrug off the bard’s hand. Should stumble out into the bushes and rid himself of the discomfort.

Instead, the wound well-treated, he watched as Jaskier dragged his fingernails along the bare skin of his thighs and rose to straddle them. The firelight shifted on his lowered face, cast a glow behind his hair.

“Now darling,” said Jaskier as he leaned to curl his palm around the girth of his cock lying soft in his smallclothes. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “Don’t you dare let go until I say.”

Geralt shivered with need in more ways than one.

* * *

Their first time together in the upper room of the tavern in Posada, Jaskier was barely out of boyhood, pink splotched high in his cheeks, hair mussed and full lips kiss-reddened.

He had scarcely kneeled between Geralt’s thighs and parted his legs with pale hands on the dark leather when, despite all efforts to hold off, Geralt was finishing in quick spurts into his trousers.

No one ever _touched_ him, hadn’t had a whore since Blaviken, had scarcely found anyone willing to do so even before that. The unchecked look of want on Jaskier’s face had simply been too much, the faint press of his fingers on his thighs too warm even through the leather, and that was that.

Jaskier’s mouth had parted into an ‘o’ of surprise as Geralt flopped back against the bedcovers, an arm flung across his face in burning shame.

“Sorry, I’m--” he grunted, rubbed his hands down his face. “I can go again in a bit, just don’t--”

And Jaskier, youthful, spry, and flushed with desire, had clambered onto him and lay across him to press his own clothed prick against Geralt’s stomach and rutted down against his abdominal muscles.

“I’m going to tell you not to come, ok?” he said, all wide blue eyes and coquettish smile. Already, Geralt felt as though he could do so again, his cock trapped beneath Jaskier’s shifting hips. “And,” said the boy with a sudden firmness that surprised him. “You’re going to _listen_.”

And Geralt had done his very best to obey.

Though, as their years together dragged on, he encountered less of an issue in spending prematurely at an errant touch, the damage was done.

They often made a game of it, Jaskier whispering denials against the head of his cock, teasing with fluttering hands, and then holding tight at the base as Geralt went white-knuckled and half-mad mumbling _not yet, not yet, not yet_ through gritted teeth.

“So good for me,” Jaskier would say as he mouthed the veined underside of his erection and lapped a tongue against the taut skin. Words that shredded and bolstered his control in equal parts.

_Not yet._

“Being so very good.”

_Not now, not yet._

“Geralt,” Jaskier would say, repeating his name until he ceased clenching his eyes shut and looked down between his legs, met Jaskier’s eyes. “Come for me,” said the bard, and presented the flat of his tongue below the head of his cock, and that was that.

* * *

So it was not so unusual for Jaskier to settle between his legs and deny him, urging him to hang on just a little bit longer.

But never quite like this.

The bard’s clever fingers worked him swiftly to hardness through his smallclothes, then shuffled back to bend at the waist and lap the fabric dark along his length. Though it was not his hot breath alone that caused Geralt to squirm.

Since consuming the second stamina decoction, the urgent ache in his bladder had intensified with a sharpness that stole his breath. If it weren’t for Jaskier in his lap, he would be fumbling to free himself and fucking piss already, but something in the way Jaskier had said _don’t you dare let go_ had struck at something startling in his brain.

It wasn’t what had been meant by the words, the bard aiming for a denial of a different sort, but it struck all the same.

His thighs trembled, resisting the urge to shift them in a way that would reveal the issue at hand. Stillness seemed to worsen the deepening bloom of pressure radiating from his abdomen, but Jaskier would be quick to comment on a jiggling leg.

So he forced himself to hold still as the bard mouthed along his clothed erection, the sensation offering a brief distraction from his current predicament. Jaskier’s mouth, though often a source of a great deal of the trouble in Geralt’s life, was truly a blessing

A sudden wave of pain radiated from his bladder, the involuntary cramping of muscles signalling a swelling need to release that would not be denied for long. He could not help but gasp at its intensity and clenched his thighs to force it to recede.

Jaskier lifted his head from Geralt’s lap, mistaking the gasp for an imminent release of another sort.

“Close?” he asked, fingers skirting along his tensed thighs, playing with the hem of his tunic. Geralt could do nothing but nod.

He tugged more sharply at the tunic until Geralt tore it over his head, realizing a blink too late that with his shirt discarded and torso exposed, his predicament would be far more obvious. The swell of his lower abdomen was decidedly unsubtle, and Jaskier’s eyes caught on it immediately.

Geralt shivered under his gaze as a fresh wave of need intensified, and he clenched his fists into the stiff grass at the base of the tree. Tried to keep himself still and failed, his hips twisting in what was decidedly _not_ a wiggle. Struggled to regain some semblance of faltering control.

“Oh,” said Jaskier with a beat of realization. He had travelled with him long enough to know the additional effects of his potions. “Oh, darling, you should have just said.”

Except, that as Jaskier made to push himself off so the Witcher could get up, Geralt grabbed his arm. Pulled him back down.

“No just…” he gasped, unable to stop another twitch of his hips. “Just tell me not to.”

The bard’s eyes widened, and Geralt cursed himself, immediately regretting his request for the stir of shame and for the pain that lurched through his gut. He didn’t know how much longer he could last like this, and all he’d accomplished was prolonging his pain and ending the night with Jaskier disgusted by him.

Geralt closed his eyes, waited for the bard to retreat, so that he could stumble off to relieve himself. Problem being, he wasn’t sure he would make it to his feet, let alone to the edge of the clearing.

The bard didn’t retreat.

Opening his eyes, he caught that _look_ on his face, one he was deeply familiar with from other nights like this.

Nights not quite like this, but how different was it truly? To resist an orgasm or to hold his waters. He thrilled in the denial all the same. Or if not the denial, then the small morsels of murmured praise that came with it.

“Geralt,” said Jaskier, gaze dark, and trailed his fingers over the convex swell of his trembling belly. “How long can you hold?”

“Not long,” he gasped and fought against a fresh urge, feeling as if the excess fluid inside him hovered right on the edge of escaping.

“Until I let you come?” asked Jaskier, and his fingers _pressed_ for a brief instant that had him lurching to grasp at his cock and attempt to delay the inevitable flood. Jaskier swatted his hand away. “No hands,” he said. “I want to see you.”

“Don’t know if I can-” he gasped, adjusting his hips against the aching pressure. “Can’t last long.”

“What does it feel like?” asked Jaskier as he freed Geralt’s erection from his smallclothes. Teasing along the length with slender fingers. Not offering enough sensation to get him off or enough of a grip to keep his other urge at bay.

“Like I’m going to fucking piss myself,” he grunted, and to his horror, felt himself lapse momentarily in his control, liquid dribbling down the flushed head of his cock.

It did not escape Jaskier’s notice.

“Not yet,” he said and tightened the curl of his fingers. Not as tightly as Geralt ached to grip himself right now, but it helped enough.

He could not still the shifting of his thighs, the roll of his hips as the urge worsened. Made worse still as Jaskier released his cock, allowing it to fall against his swollen lower abdomen.

“Do you think I could fuck you like this?” asked Jaskier, the sudden blurt of the question allowing another spurt to escape despite his tightly-held muscles.

“Not if you want to stay dry,” he managed to grit out. Jaskier watched the wetness darken the hair along his belly, piss mixing with the pre-come smearing from the head of his erection.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said, pupils blown wide, and left Geralt to fetch the oil.

Shifting down to lie stretched out under Jaskier’s gaze was nearly too much movement for his overtaxed bladder, and he had to disobey the bard’s orders to grip at himself briefly. Jaskier tutted and removed his hand to curl their fingers together.

“Hnggh,” Geralt grunted, a swell of crippling need cresting over him, considering the merits of shoving Jaskier off and struggling up to deal with this, to put an end to this foolish game. It _ached_ , and the solution was simple, he would just--

“Be good, my dear,” said Jaskier, and he could do nothing but struggle to obey, holding on.

When oil-slicked fingers pressed against his opening, he knew he would fail in that struggle. There was no godsforsaken way he could continue to hold his waters as Jaskier fucked him. Even as he prepared him with stretching fingers, the burn of fullness was nearly too much. The nudge of Jaskier’s cock against his loosened muscles as he slowly slipped inside far more than too much. It was unbearable.

“Gods, you should see yourself,” said Jaskier as he pressed deeper, each small movement sending shocks of urgent need through his tender abdomen. Geralt flushed with humiliation at the image he must make.

His chest felt constricted, hardly able to draw breaths, each stilted drag of air into his lungs and small shift of his body reminding him of the fullness in his lower body. Especially as Jaskier pressed deeper inside, holding there.

He must look a sight lying beneath him on his back, his body gone sweat-slick, muscles quivering with exertion more than they did in the midst of battle. Slow spurts of piss ran down the flared head of his cock, errant spays of droplets beading along his torso that could have been sweat, could have been pre-come, but were not. Each roll of Jaskier’s hips in shallow ruts inside his body inspired shorts leaks that threatened to deepen together to a stream.

“Not yet,” he grunted to himself. He could feel his hold slackening even with his best efforts to maintain it, even his mutated body and superior muscle control unable to resist this inevitability much longer.

“That’s perfect, Geralt,” said Jaskier, and Geralt all but whimpered as the bard finally curled slender fingers around the base of his erection, but not tight enough to stem a fresh burst of liquid across his belly. “Doing so good for me. Don’t let go just yet, love.”

Jaskier slicked his hand along his erection, the increased dampness striking a different sort of embarrassment at the wet sounds his fist made around him. Not to mention the desperate little huffs and whines that Geralt could no longer strop from escaping as he thrust up into Jaskier’s hand.

He couldn’t even say what he sought most desperately, the release of his aching bladder or the orgasm that built in a sudden, hot pulse from his tightening balls down his tensed thighs. And built and crested it did, though he fought against it, knowing that Jaskier hadn’t allowed it and also knowing that with one release the other would follow soon after.

He jerked in the hold of Jaskier’s curled fingers and surrendered with a groan to the heat that seeped into his groin, finishing in streaks across his glistening torso.

“Oh,” said Jaskier, surprised. His hips stilled within him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Geralt slurred. “I can’t-- I can’t. ‘M sorry.”

“It’s ok, love,” he said, and thumbed over the corners of his eyes where Geralt realized tears had begun to slip free. It was utterly humiliating, the ways that Jaskier’s voice immediately soothed him, the ways he allowed his control to slacken under the bard’s touch.

And his control was certainly slackening.

“Jaskier, I can’t--” His softening cock leaked in rivulets now, the piss escaping no matter the strain of his muscles, no matter his desperate struggles to contain his overfull bladder. It spilled over against his will. The liquid lapped at the very edge, threatening to burst entirely.

“A bit longer,” said Jaskier and gripped his waist with slender fingers, resuming the roll of his hips.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly last.

And he wasn’t lasting. Each thrust elicited a new trickle where his cock rested against the round of his bladder, until it ran in rivulets down his side. Not yet letting go, but there was no stemming the flow now, no complicated wriggle of his hips that could pause it.

“I can’t,” he gasped. “Really can’t.”

“Hush,” hummed the bard, quickening his rhythm. “I’m close. Just wait.”

He couldn’t wait.

A burst of higher-pressured released caught him off guard, one solid stream that rushed higher up the solid muscle of his chest, and he bore down to slow it, fighting with the deepening bloom in the taut stretch of his bladder to beat the flow back to a dribble.

But it was no use, his body’s urges eclipsing his willpower. Too weak to fight it. A new wave of urgency trembled through him, painful and sharp in the solid weight of his belly, and the stream intensified again. His trembling muscles giving to it with a broken gasp from his lips. Nothing to do but clench his eyes shut against the wave of guilt and allow the surprising pleasure of it to wash over him, the long-sought release crashing over him with nearly the same intensity as an orgasm, perhaps more so.

It seemed to go on and on, the surge of his shredded control, the escaping flood.

The relief was unbearable, his exhausted muscles shuddering, still endeavoring to fight it off even as it passed the point of inevitable, and with a last gasp, he lost himself to it.

His senses blurred, and as the piss finally began to peter off, his surroundings lagged in coming back into focus, only realizing as Jaskier slipped free of him that he had finished along with him. The emptiness afterward was nearly unbearable after being so full for so long.

“Hush now,” Jaskier whispered, as Geralt became aware of his rush of mumbled apologies. He had disobeyed, had been unable to will his body to follow instructions. The bard lifted his hand to kiss the scarred knuckles, eyes a wet shine in the darkness, crinkled with fondness at the edges. “You tried your very best. You’re wonderful, Geralt. So wonderful.”

As they shifted apart, Jaskier wrinkled his nose at the puddle that seeped into the dirt beneath them, and Geralt grimaced in shame, feeling undeserving of the reassuring press of the bard’s lips against his fingers, the meat of his palm.

“Come on, then,” he breathed, entangling their fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

And Geralt allowed Jaskier to help him to his feet, unable to deny him a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> if you are new to this kink and are now thinking "oh no do i have a piss kink?" no. no you don't, you just crave geralt getting soft dommed within an inch of his life.
> 
> thank you to my loyal tumblr followers who stuck around around through me saying "geralt piss fic" so many goddamn times


End file.
